


Bittersweet

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Drama, Kink Meme, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-23
Updated: 2011-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-20 16:17:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/214635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another Sweden/Finland kink meme de-anon. AU, with Sweden as a small town baker and Finland who can't help himself when it comes to sugar or Sweden's sweetness. Making a relationship from scratch is never easy though, so there is certainly a touch of angst here. With very special appearances from Sealand and Denmark.</p><p>This is a slow moving piece and the one I am most pleased with to date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

All things considered, Sweden could find no fault with his new life; a charming little bakery, nestled on a quaint road, in a pretty town where it snowed just enough to remind him of home, filled with pleasant locals who paid his rent and kept him fleeting company as they oohhed and aahhed over his culinary creations. He had a cozy suite of rooms upstairs, warmed by the bakery ovens below, and filled with furniture he’d built with his own two hands, pictures of family and friends from another time, another place. He liked the boy he’d hired to work the counter, with his friendly open face and impressive eyebrows. A fortunate hire, he often reflected, this boy who cheered him when the winter hours grew long and dark, chattering aimlessly as he wiped down the display counter, telling stories of his elder brother’s antics that caused the storeroom to be filled with Sweden’s low-reverberating laughter. It was a sweet, if quiet, life.

Sweden was a quiet, thoughtful sort, and though his stoic, often grave face belied it, his heart was kind and his mind sometimes mischievous. He was a man prone to sneaking freshly baked cookies into the hands of the neighborhood kids who couldn’t quite keep the hungry greed out of their eyes as mother shopped for the Sunday dinner tart. Though not much of one for making his own idle conversation, he enjoyed learning about the mundane comings and goings of his customers as they debated between a scone and a croissant. And when a perverse mood struck him, he liked to argue politics with the Danish man who bought coffee for two from him every Saturday morning.

What he liked most of all about this new life in this town was watching the crowds of people pass by his large front window in the waning evening light, going home to their own little private lives, as he waited to flip the sign on his door from open to closed. Sweden passed the lingering last moments of his own day, his diligent little worker bee mopping the floors and humming in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and wondering about these passers-by. What did they do in the hours between twice crossing this path, once in the morning and again at night? Did they trudge into an office unwillingly or go forth with confidence to command a board room? Did they now go home to lovers? To mothers and fathers? To a lone glass of wine and a novel?

He imagined histories and futures for those who walked by regularly, filling in what little real knowledge he had from their trips into his bakery. Each evening he picked one out of the crowd, spinning out their tale in his mind as his hands kept busy with menial tasks. _The woman who wears red shoes with her staid black business suit, who likes blueberry scones and Earl Gray tea, every night she goes home and sheds the skirt and the jacket, puts on sweats, but keeps on the heels as she makes dinner for her husband_. And so on and so forth until the streets were quiet again and it was time to turn off the lights and retreat upstairs.

There was, however, one particular person, for whom Sweden could not conjure a fantasy life. This person had become the one Sweden waited for every day, keeping his shop open past the posted six p.m. closing time if he’d not yet made his daily passage by the window. Sweden had first noticed him weeks ago, when the bakery had just opened, as he’d been counting out the register. Aimlessly, he looked up to see this man, who was to so capture his attention, standing outside the windows admiring the selection of fruit pies that Sweden and Sealand had so carefully arranged as enticement to future customers.

Sweden’s heart jumped, and not only because this new stranger was so lovely, with pale blond hair, tucked sweetly under a white beret, cheeks stained pink from winter’s chill, biting his lower lip in contemplation of the treats before him. No, it was not just because this man was so exquisitely his type, lithe and adorably attractive, but because when their eyes met, Sweden saw not only an amused desire to buy one of everything in the window, but also a shade of some lingering sadness, a hurt buried deep. A look he knew all too well from the mirror. The connection, fleeting and fleeing, was electric. Sweden was attracted and intrigued, wanting to know more, to see more of this mystery man.

And so he waited, as many evenings as he could, watching as the man walked past his store, stopping each day to look at the cakes and pastries in the display, temptation clearly written on his face. And yet, much to his disappointment, each time he met Sweden’s gaze, the man promptly looked down and began to walk away. Sweden sternly told himself not to take offense; after all, it was hardly the first time his appearance had proved too intimidating. (Though perhaps Sweden had never more strongly wished it were otherwise.)

It wasn’t until Sealand caught him staring one night that Sweden managed to learn anything about the beguiling stranger. He’d walked in from cleaning the back, dust and floor coating his black work pants, startling Sweden out of his daydreams by sidling up to him and telling him, “Finland.”

Shaking his head as though to escape from his thoughts, Sweden turned to face Sealand’s knowing smirk, replying “Hmm? What?”

Sealand jerked his head in the direction of the window, where the man was still looking at the chocolate cake with longing, “His name is Finland. He teaches down at the middle school. He’s really nice. I’ve walked his dog for him a few times.”

 _Finland_. _Finland_ , Sweden let the name echo in his mind, _the mystery now has a name._

Sealand, being a teenager and not well versed in the subtleties of romance and adult interaction, plowed on ahead, “You think he’s cute! Do you want me to wave for him to come in here?”

 Amused, and a little touched by this brash, but affectionate, offer, Sweden ruffled Sealand’s hair before gently pushing him towards the backdoor, “Go on home, Sealand. Sure your brother’s waiting for you.”

Sealand laughed and ducked into the kitchen, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck to guard against the snow that had started falling, before calling out his goodbyes and wandering out the back. Sweden smiled after him, chest warmed with fondness for his ambitious would-be Cupid. He looked up to see Finland still standing out front, little flecks of snow gathering on his coat and in his hair, his wide blue eyes illuminated in the darkness by the glow of the streetlight. Their gazes connected for a moment in the winter gloom, the whole evening seeming to still, before Finland cast his eyes down once again, a last parting look at the chocolate richness before turning, hands resolutely shoved in his pockets, and walking away.

Heart beating slightly faster, Sweden made his way to the window, watching the back of the mystery man, now Finland, as he passed into the night. _Where are you going_ , he wondered. _Why won’t you come inside? What’s making you so sad?_

Finland finally disappeared around the corner. Sweden sighed, turned off the light, and made his way upstairs, mind filled with Finland, Finland, Finland.  
[  
](http://champagnesly.livejournal.com/6724.html)


	2. 2

And so several days passed, unremarkable but for the dusting of snow on the ground, the days continuing to get shorter as the world crept towards the closing of another year, Sweden and Sealand performing a well-rehearsed routine in the bakery on the corner. On a quiet, chilled morning, Sweden had been surprised to receive a box of Anjou pears, a rare winter gift from the friend in France who had first shown him how to roll dough and make a pie crust so buttery and rich it ought not to have been allowed.

Sweden took a bite of his precious gift, delighted to find the fruit juicy and sweet, but not so sweet as to be cloying. As he slowly consumed the pear, letting the juice run down his fingers, he planned and schemed, a recipe to honor his Parisian benefactor unspooling in his mind. This was going to take some time and effort; he would have to leave the front of the house to Sealand’s enthusiastic but often dubious charms as he tended to his masterpiece. A commitment, but one he knew would be more than worth it.

Ensconced in the aromatic heat of the kitchen, Sweden took pleasure in his craft, peeling the skin of pears in long, spindly strands; grinding almonds and sifting flour, keeping half an ear open to the murmurs of business as usual in the store. Some indeterminate amount of time later, the room filled with the smell of fruit bubbling and baking in the oven, Sweden emerged from his culinary cave, pleased to find that Sealand had indeed had swift sales this morning.

At the moment, the boy was lounging against the register, making eyes at one of the local girls, trying to convince her that life would be incomplete without trying one of Sweden’s “Chocolate Decadence” cookies. The girl was giggling in turn, clearly tempted but trying not to be, claiming she had no money for such luxuries. Sealand cast a quick, pleading look in Sweden’s direction. _Ah well_ , Sweden thought,  _who am I to stand in the way of love’s youthful (and indiscriminate) folly_ , amused that Sealand was employing this tactic for the third time this week. Sweden gave a quick nod and Sealand promptly snatched one of the cookies from the counter, presenting it to his young lady with the kind of flourish usually reserved for much greater things.

Of course, the young lady demurred, though her eyes said, “Yes, yes, I do so want to have that treat!”

Gallantly, Sealand pushed onwards, insisting with his unmistakable grin, “On the house! Please, take it! I promise you’ll love it and never want another cookie again!”

Even Sweden couldn’t help but be charmed by Sealand’s earnest entreaty and offering, and the girl was no different, blushing and accepting the gift before leaning over the counter to whisper something in his ear.

After she left, Sealand turned to Sweden, smile as wide and shining as a rainbow, obviously delighted with his success. Sweden arched an eyebrow at the lothario-in-training.

Sealand balked, “What! It works every time! No one is capable of resisting your food once they’ve tried it! And if they just happen to be so grateful to the person who gave it to them…well, who am I to argue with that!”

Sweden rolled his eyes, as if to say, “Kids these days!”

Sealand’s look turned mischievous, a clear warning sign that he was about to start teasing, “Maybe you should try it! Give a piece of your very best something to that guy you wait for every day! Sweden’s darling Fiiiiiinnnnlaaaaaaand!” Sealand taunted affectionately, drawing out Finland’s name for maximum affect.

Sweden’s only rejoinder was a pointed glare before waving off Sealand’s silliness and returning to the kitchen.

As he eyed the progress of the creation in the oven, Sweden mused, _Well, Sealand, if I could just get him to come inside, I would_.

Spending hours devoted to his delicate dish, Sweden was surprised to find that the day had fallen away into evening, the room grown golden-red in the setting of the sun. He’d just pulled out the final tarte, the only he one he intended to cut into tonight. A piece for him and Sealand each, as a reward for a day’s good efforts! As he pushed the knife downwards, gratified by the ease with which it passed through, he heard the tinkle of the front door bell, signifying a late customer, perhaps one of the weary boulevard commuters of his imagination. _The CEO who kept stray cats, perhaps? Or maybe the high school hockey star who stashed comics under his bed?_

Concentrating on plating clean and even pieces, Sweden paid the newcomer very little mind beyond his absent musing, leaving their care to Sealand. He was jerked out of his concentration, knife slipping a little (this piece was destined to be crooked), as Sealand called out an uncharacteristically loud and exuberant greeting, “Mr. Finland! It’s so great to see you again! Welcome to Swedish Delights!”

Gently, Sweden set down the blade, leaning against his worktable to dedicate his full attention to eavesdropping. _So, he finally comes inside_ , his thoughts raced through his mind, matching the speed of his beating heart, _when I’m back here, covered in flour and pear…Oh. Maybe its exactly because I’m here and not there that he’s now there, too.”_  Discouraged, he listened, wanting to hear mysterious Finland’s voice for the first time.

“Oh, hello! I’m so sorry, you do look familiar, but I can’t seem to place your name,”replied a light and pleasant voice, tinged with an appealing accent.

 _So this is what he sounds like. A voice to match the face_.

Unperturbed, Sealand laughed brightly, “I’m Sealand! I went to APH Middle a few years back, though I never had you as a teacher!”

Finland laughed in return, and Sweden pictured his smile, small with lips upturned at the corners in gentle apology, as he responded, “Of course! There are so many students! I am glad you look well. So, Sealand, everything here looks so good. What would you recommend?”

There was a pause before Sealand replied, again more loudly than necessary, “Well, everything here is pretty much amazing. But the boss has been working on something special all day. You should ask for a piece of that!”

Sweden didn’t know whether to curse or hug the boy, recognizing his bumbling assistant’s efforts as an attempt to give Sweden an opening with Finland.

 _Well_ , he thought, looking down at the pears nestled their in almond cushion, _if there was ever a dish to give away to a pretty customer, this would be the one_.

Steeling his resolve, and softening his face, Sweden picked up a plate, taking a deep breath and entering the storeroom.

Finland started and looked away. Sealand gave him an amused and encouraging glance, nodding his head in Finland’s in a manner that he doubtless thought was subtle. Clearing his throat and trying to speak as warmly and softly as possible, Sweden mumbled his very first words to Finland:

“Evening. Thanks for coming in.”

Nervously, Finland replied, without meeting his eyes, “Hello.”

Sealand chimed in, “This is Sweden! He owns the place, bakes everything you see here! Sweden, this is Finland, he’s a teacher at my old school.”

Which was followed by an exchange of awkward and hesitant nods hello.

As he’d made it this far, Sweden pressed on, “Heard Sealand recommend what I’ve got here. Isn’t anything fancy, but I’d be happy if you tried it.” He set the plate down, still warm from the oven, enticing aroma filling the silent spaces in the evening gloom.

Finland turned to look at what was on offer and Sweden was delighted to see his eyes go wide, his mouth falling open slightly.  Taking a cue from Sealand, Sweden went in for the kill, “Pear Tarte. Fresh pears from France. First time I’ve made it here. Have it.” A beat. “Please.”

Several seconds passed, Sweden watching Finland watch the piece of tart, witnessing his internal  debate, until Finland moved forward, resolutely picking up the fork and taking a bite. Sealand and Sweden both held their breath, entranced as Finland’s eyes fluttered closed, a spray of near white lashes on his cheek, as he swallowed and emitted a low, appreciative moan of happiness. His eyes opened again, breaking the reverie, a smile spreading across his face.

Finally, he turned to Sweden, quickly meeting his gaze before it skittered away again to the pear tarte, murmuring, “Thank you so much. This is delicious, exactly what I needed, I can’t even tell you how wonderful this is.”

Sweden’s cheeks flushed as he mumbled a thanks that was overwhelmed by Sealand’s more enthused response, “I told you! Everything here is great! Seriously, come back any time! Sweden’s got loads of good stuff for you to try!”

Finland laughed around another mouthful of pie, again making fleeting eye contact with Sweden, who merely nodded his head in agreement. _Yes, you are always welcome._ He watched quietly as Finland continued to devour the tarte, while patiently listening to Sealand’s latest caper. At one point in what was quickly becoming a truly outlandish story, Finland turned to him, arching a questioning eyebrow. Used to Sealand’s tall tales, Sweden merely shrugged a shoulder, favoring his favorite employee with a small, fond smile. He was pleasantly surprised to find that when he looked back again, Finland was looking at him in return with curious eyes, his lips not quite smiling, but no longer frowning.

Only a few minutes later, the plate was empty and Finland had given his thanks and farewells, wandering out into the newly fallen night, leaving Sweden with one last parting look of interest, an almost smile that Sweden would always remember. He watched him go, ignoring Sealand’s inquisitive silence. Once Finland had passed from view, Sweden made his way back to his smirking help, squeezing his shoulder in affectionate acknowledgment before escaping to the safety of his kitchen.

“Sealand. The rest of this tarte is for you. For your hard work today.”

Alone again, carefully putting the other tartes away, ready to be sold the next morning, Sweden smiled to himself as he overheard Sealand's triumphant laughter, quickly muffled by the sound of the boys stuffing his face full of tarte. He hoped that Finland would take their invitation to heart, that now the ice was broken, he would wander in freely. Sweden looked around his slightly disheveled kitchen, taking stock, determined to have something even more wonderful than the pear tarte ready should Finland come back. After all, he knew better than anyone how a forkful of something sweet, rich, and made with care, offered up freely by a patient hand could bleed away life's little trials and tribulations.

He would be ready.


	3. 3

Wednesday morning, crisp and clear, the sun melted away the last of the snow and the town came to life once again, seeming to shake off the doldrums of the last weeks’ winter gray. In honor of this momentary sunny respite, Sweden churned out several bright lemon chiffon cakes, white icing flecked with yellow lemon shavings. He was bending down, head stuck midway under the counter, gently sliding the new cake into the display case when he was startled into smacking his forehead against the glass shelf by a much wanted voice telling him, “You’re evil, you know that, right?”

Sweden stood up, absently rubbing his smarting head, pain lessened by the welcome sight of a visibly amused, and somewhat frustrated Finland standing in front of the counter, arms crossed over his chest, flushed cheeks peeking out over a fluffy blue scarf wound several times around his neck.

Sweden took a step forward, pleased that Finland didn’t shift away, though he noticed that Finland kept his eyes firmly on the wealth of pies and cakes behind the glass below.

“Come again?” Sweden asked softly, wary of breaking the tentative moment.

Finland sighed, gaze fixated on the lemon chiffon Sweden had just set out, “You’re evil. You must be to make things that are so bewitchingly good. All week I’ve been thinking about that tarte, craving more. And today was just so irritating, I couldn’t help myself when I walked by. So here I am. I need my fix.”

Sweden chuckled, happy that what he’d made with his own two hands had left such an impression. And Finland was so appealing like this, badly restrained cravings tempered by good humor. He pointed at his newest creation, “Lemon Chiffon. You want some? Good for bad days, I’m told.”

Finland considered it, crouching down to admire the cake, “Yes, yes, I think this will do nicely. It’s so temptingly pretty.”

Sweden ducked to hide his pinking cheeks, swiftly going down again to pull the cake out. Back turned, he chanced a more personal question, telling himself that he would ask any of his regulars the same thing, “Bad day?”

He could almost feel the words bubble up in Finland, as if he had been waiting all day just to have someone listen, “Oh no, just frustrating. I want to take my kids on a field trip after the school break, a little reward for another good term, but the administration is making me jump through so many hoops. Never ending reams of paperwork.”

Sweden finished plating the cake, indulging himself in some playful art with the whipped cream on the side, making a little mound with devil horns. He gestured for Finland to take a seat at the little table for two in front of the smaller window, bathed in the waning mid-afternoon light. Finland acquiesced, and Sweden served him the cake. Noticing the little whipped devil, Finland giggled, pointing a finger at Sweden, “You’re as bad as my sixth graders!”

Sweden gave him a look implying that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, to which Finland rolled his eyes in response, taking his first bite. His sigh was as rich and decadent as when he tried the pear tarte. Sweden wanted to hear it every day.

He cleared his throat, “You like your job?”

Finland took another bite, nodding enthusiastically. He swallowed, meeting Sweden’s inquisitive face with eyes for once totally clear of anything but happiness, “Definitely! My kids are so great, really! Sure, the administration and the parents can be a little wearing, but at the end of the day, it’s totally worth it.”

Sweden was enchanted, knowing that this was the expression Finland was always meant to have, that his voice ought to always be so bright and effervescent. He wanted him to keep talking, but felt awkward looming over the table watching the man make quick work of his cake. He’d reluctantly started to turn away when Finland called him back, waving with the fork still in hand, motioning for Sweden to join him.

“You sure?” Sweden asked, even as he pulled out his chair. Finland hurriedly finished another bite of cake, “Yes, of course. It’s good to have another adult to chat with after 8 hours filled with pre-teen melodrama.”

Sweden murmured his agreement, thinking of his own close encounters of the teenaged kind with Sealand. Finland chatted contentedly in between mouthfuls of lemon chiffon, telling Sweden about his classes, the joys and frustrations of teaching. Sweden listened intently, leaning back in his chair, watching the way the sunlight glinted in Finland’s hair.  

Fork scraping the last remnants of cream and crumb from his plate, Finland sighed with satiated pleasure. He paused, looking away.

“I’m sorry, by the way, if I seemed stand-offish the last time we met. It’s just you remind me of someone I used to know.” The sadness and anxiety returned as he made his apologies, not meeting Sweden’s eyes.

 _There’s a story there_ , Sweden mused, wondering about this other someone and what they could have done to leave such an indelible mark.

“It’s no problem. Glad you came back in.”

Finland smiled slightly, “I could hardly resist. Like I said, the devil made me do it.” He stood from the table, holding out his hand for Sweden to shake, “Thanks for the cake. And for the conversation. It’s hard to say which one I needed more.”

Sweden stood as well, clasping Finland’s small, warm palm in his own, cataloging the feel of his skin, the firm press of his fingertips, “Anytime.”

Finland made his way to the door, opening it and letting in a rush of cool night air, calling out over his shoulder, amusement in his voice, “Be careful! I may just take you up on that!”

Sweden followed him, holding the door, one hand stretched over Finland’s head, looking down at his lovely features, “Do.”

Finland smiled and walked out, leaving Sweden standing on the threshold of his store, watching.


	4. 4

And Finland did return, most evenings, only moments before closing, harried or happy, but always hungry. Sweden was glad for his lateness, the emptiness of the store allowing him to take the time to sit, the two of them alone at the little table for two, watching the sun go down and the Christmas lights go up over the street. Other times Sealand lingered, generously offering to do the last little chores of the day so that Sweden could entertain his most wanted customer.

As the evening commuters passed by now unheeded by the owner of the bakery on the corner, Finland spun out his story while taking his pleasures in Sweden’s latest culinary masterpiece. Brief interludes in otherwise routine days, these conversations with coffee and confections were framed like snapshots in Sweden’s memory.

Over petit-fours, Finland told him long meandering tales of his childhood home, the way the snow seemed endless and unforgiving, but how much he missed blossoming of spring.

Sachertorte and sharing pictures of his dog, Sweden completely besotted with Finland’s happy, carefree, smile in the photos.

Cupcakes that Finland cooed over, before he bought two dozen for his class, and chatting about the town, Finland giving Sweden all of the good gossip, mirthful and gently wicked. Sweden passing along a few tidbits he gleaned from loose lipped customers, much to Finland’s amusement.

Ligonberry pie and Finland’s laughter as Sweden gave in and begrudgingly told him about the time in university when he had broken his oven trying to make muffins. He may have even laughed a little, too.

Though never, no matter how hard Sweden tried to insinuate, to gently pry, did Finland ever give any hint of the story behind his sometimes haunted eyes. There were moments when Sweden thought he was on the verge of it, words about to trip off his tongue, but he never could quite seem to bring himself to say it before he changed the route of his thoughts, distracting Sweden with a smile.

Four weeks worth of evenings like these, tiny moments in days that grew ever shorter as the holidays grew near.

Sweden wondered if perhaps Finland had been lonely, too.

And Sweden pulled out these little snapshots, lingering over the details, as he tried to decide what to do, how to move forward. These pieces of Finland’s time were lovely, yes, so lovely, but now that he knew more, Sweden wanted more. He wondered, were he to ask Finland to have a real dinner, complex carbohydrates and proteins washed down with wine, somewhere other than here, would he say yes?

He waited for several more days, deliberating, until the night when Finland finished his strawberry napoleon and a recollection of a happy memory of his youth, head resting in the palm of his hand, arm propped on the table, staring wistfully out the window. Sweden wanted to kiss the corners of his eyes, clear away the sadness that lingered there, untouched even by the sweetness of remembering better days. And he knew then that his feelings ran deep, silently rushing in his veins.

  
Determined to do what needed to be done, ask the question that needed to be asked before he made a fool of himself, the very next evening he waited outside the shop, the door closed and lights dimmed. Tonight he would offer a meal that someone else made, a table perhaps with a cloth and candles, make his intentions clear. His breath curled out before him, frosted in the chill dark night as he tried to calm his nerves, watching Finland approach. His steps seemed weary, slower than usual, and Sweden began to worry.

Finally, Finland reached his doorstep, downcast and subdued, distractedly surprised by the sudden change in his routine, finding Sweden outside, lights-off, sanctuary closed. The words, “Will you have dinner with me,” were floating on the tip of Sweden’s tongue until Finland looked up at him, with such tired sadness, that the notion dissipated in the wind.

“Oh,” Finland said quietly, “you’re going out. I don’t want to keep you.”

Before he could turn and walk away, Sweden fumbled for his keys, cursing his cold and stiff fingers as he struggled to open the lock, hurriedly telling his dejected darling, “No, no. Come in. Get warm.”

Finland seemed relieved, a little bit of the lost look leaving his eyes as Sweden ushered him inside.

“Thank you,” he sighed, shrugging off his scarf and gloves in the still dimmed room.

Sweden circled in front of him, taking Finland by the shoulders, commanding his attention, “What’s wrong?”

Finland shuddered, as if to rid himself of whatever bad feeling plagued him, “I’m sorry to ask, but do you have anything with chocolate?”

Startled, but charmed in spite of himself by the request, Sweden steered Finland into the darkened kitchen, allowing him entry into his most protected territory, wary of letting him out of his sight. He sat Finland down before flooding the room with light, pulling off his heavy winter coat and pulling on his stained and well-loved work apron, before fetching a bar of bittersweet chocolate from the cupboard. He set the double-boiler on the stove, dropping in several cubes of the chocolate. As he moved to the fridge, once again he asked, voice low and warm, “What’s wrong?”

Finland exhaled once, deep, and steady, before beginning, “There’s this guy. Or I should say there was this guy.”

 _“Isn’t there always,”_ Sweden thought as he sliced the tops from the strawberries with perhaps more force than necessary.

“We were together for a few years, but he was never very good to me. He’s tall, you know, tall and broad, blue eyes and blond hair, like you. That’s why you made me so nervous at first. But where your face looks mean and your heart is kind, his face looked kind but his heart was mean. For so long people told me to leave him. He’s too controlling, too demanding, wanting you to sacrifice so much of yourself. Never thought I was worth much and took pleasure in telling me so. Always with that horrid little smile of his.”

Sweden’s blade struck the cutting board so hard it left a dent in the wood, sending several of the berries crashing to the floor. Finland continued, seemingly too lost in his own thoughts, “So finally, I wise up enough to leave. And everything is so good for awhile. I’ve got the kids at school, my own place, a dog….and I meet you.”

Sweden’s heart sped up as he dipped the strawberries into the bubbling chocolate.

Finland continued, voice beginning to shake, “And then, today, he shows up out of nowhere, coming to my work, same awful grin on his face, telling me that I had better come back to him, because I am too weak to stand on my own. That no one will ever want me.”

Sweden’s blood boiled as he placed the chocolate covered strawberries on a plate, finally turning to Finland, meager offering of comfort in hand. He watched as Finland tilted his head towards the lights in the ceiling in an obvious effort to not cry.

Unable to say the words, _“I think that I will always want you_ ,” knowing that this was neither the time nor the place for such a declaration, Sweden did what he could, shuffling closer, putting the treats down at Finland’s side, before opening his arms in the offer of an embrace.

Finland looked at him with surprise, eyes shining, sighing and shifting forward into the hug. Sweden held him close as Finland’s hands clutched at the back of his shirt, the tension slowly leaving him as he leaned in ever closer.  For a silent moment they clung to one another in the kitchen, before Finland pulled back, seeming to withdraw into himself. He cleared his throat and stood, distancing himself emotionally and physically by moving away from Sweden, who was at a loss for what to do next.

Looking away from Sweden’s troubled and concerned gaze, Finland spotted the strawberries, “You made these for me.” Sweden nodded.

Finland looked at them for a long moment before shaking his head and walking towards the back door. Before Sweden could move to stop him, he opened the door and passed into the cold night, confusing Sweden with his parting words, “You are too good, Sweden.”

Bewildered and helpless, Sweden wrapped the plate of strawberries and returned it to the fridge, determined to save them for when Finland came back. He turned off the light, leaving the mess for the morning, making his way to his room, shedding the dress shirt and slacks he’d hoped would be suitable for a first date, falling into bed worried and weary.


	5. 5

For several days, there was no sight of Finland. Sweden’s agitation grew to such a fevered pitch that Sealand offered to go to the middle school and make sure their favorite customer was alright. Sweden was close to breaking down and asking Sealand to do so, when Finland swept in to the store, later than ever before, just as Sweden was closing up the kitchen for the night. His breath caught in his chest as he laid eyes on him, cheeks flushed and eyes a little dulled, smile too wide to be completely genuine.

Finland came up close to him, squeezing his hand in a hello that could have been a sign of affection had it ever happened before. As he breezed by, Sweden caught the faint scent of vodka on his breath, though Finland’s steps were steady, his actions sure.

Finland crouched down in front of the display case, searching, searching. He turned to Sweden with a pronounced pout, “No chocolate, today?”

Thrown off-balance by this whirlwind Finland, Sweden shook his head. Determined to keep the man in his store, so as to try and puzzle out whatever was going on, he asked Finland to sit and wait before retrieving the abandoned chocolate covered strawberries from the fridge.

As he placed them in front of Finland,  Sweden watched as a look of shamed recognition shadowed his eyes for a fleeting second, before turning mischievous and, much to Sweden’s astonishment, flirty. Finland jerked on his wrist, pulling him down into the opposite seat. Sweden watched, mouth going dry, as Finland placed one of the berries between his teeth, maintaining eye contact as he bit down, tongue flicking out to catch the running juice as he hummed in appreciation.

 _What is going on?_ Sweden wondered, baffled and driven to distraction by this deliberate act of temptation.

Finland sighed, polishing off another of the strawberries, licking the chocolate from his lips, “I’ve missed this.”

 _Missed me or missed the desserts?_

Sweden nearly jumped out of his chair when Finland reached across the table, intertwining sticky fingers with his, leaning across the table, eyes fluttering closed as he came closer, closer, closer. Involuntarily, Sweden’s own eyes shut just as Finland’s lips met his.

And oh, oh, he knew this was happening all wrong, too fast, Finland wasn’t himself, but Finland tasted like the sugared rim of a chocolate martini, all sweetness and liquor, and there was such pleasure in tasting his own creation in another’s mouth. He should have pulled away, stopped it all before it went too far, but then Finland was in his lap, teeth and lips and tongue, hands and fingers everywhere telling him yes, yes, yes. And as they fumbled their way up the stairs, clothes discarded, tumbling into bed under Finland’s rushed and desperate hands, he should have turned away, but Finland was warm and willing, and Sweden was a man in love.

So he let himself fall into Finland, swept away in whatever tide was pulling Finland out to sea, holding him close when it was over, waiting for the morning.

   
Sweden woke to find his arms empty, but as he slid his glasses on to his nose, it was a daydream come to life to find Finland there beside him sprawled out on his back, breathing deeply, one hand thrown over his head. Content in the early morning light, Sweden slid closer to Finland, taking the opportunity to indulge in an up close study of his slack, sleeping face, seemingly still troubled even in sleep. Wanting to offer comfort, wanting to be near, Sweden threaded his fingers through the Finland's hand, pulling it down to kiss each knuckle.

Finland stirred restlessly, turning on his side to face Sweden, before slowly blinking awake. Sweden smiled, stroking his thumb along their joined hands, enjoying the sight of Finland coming to life...until the sheen of sleep left Finland's face entirely only to be replaced by panic. Abruptly, painfully, Finland pulled away, gasping and moving to sit on the edge of the bed, sheets wrapped around his middle as he face away from Sweden.

Confused and not a little hurt, Sweden sat up too, moving to reach for his bedmate until Finland spoke, quietly, apologetically, "I'm am so sorry, Sweden. So very, very sorry. Last night...last night was a.."

Hand dropping to his side, Sweden interrupted Finland, "Don't. Please don't say it."

Finland put his head in his hands, voice bereft, "It shouldn't have happened. God, I knew I should have gone straight home. But he showed up again, that guy I told you about, and he said such things, such horrible things. And all I could think about later at the bar was you and how nice it felt when you held me before and I wanted more... I shouldn't have come here last night."

Mind reeling, Sweden did all that he could, wanting Finland to know that he could have as much of him as he wanted, that there was no amount of his affection he couldn't lay claim to.

Speaking so softly as to be a whisper, Sweden confessed, "I'm in love with you."

Finland stilled, his back going stiff, hands clenched in the sheets before he crumpled once again, sighing, “I know.”

Moments passed in tense silence before Finland spoke again, “And maybe I love you, too…”

Sweden inhaled sharply, wishing that he had the power to stop time right here at this moment when Finland said he loved him, hair mussed from sleep, marks of possession on his shoulders and throat. Anything to freeze time before the inevitable, cursed “but” could tumble out.

“…but, I can’t do this. I’m so sorry, Sweden, truly, deeply sorry. You are so kind, so good, and I don’t belong in your world. Not right now.”

Finland finished, moving from the bed to pick up his scattered clothing as Sweden sat with eyes firmly focused on the bedspread, mind refusing to accept what had just happened. To go from such sweetness to such bitterness in so short a time, it was incomprehensible. When he looked up, Finland was gone, though the sheets were still warm.


	6. 6

For the first time since becoming the proprietor of the bakery, Sweden left his doors shut and the lights off, no explanation given to the perplexed customers who stopped by in search of their favorite treat beyond the Closed sign.  For one day following the abrupt and shattering end to his not yet truly begun love affair, Sweden permitted himself to be alone in kitchen, pouring his anxiety and disappointment into batters and icings, living his thoughts in isolation. After endless hours of beating dough into submission and willing all his focus to the making perfectly latticed apple pies, he had more product than ever before. Cakes, cookies, scones, and pies he now had in abundance, but he the solace he had hoped to find amongst the flour and eggs never materialized.

The next morning, a Sunday, dawned bright and cold. The temptation to stay hidden away once more was almost stronger than he could bear, but Sweden knew that this was one of his busiest days and though his own heart was weighted down, he would not allow his despondency to deny others’ pleasures. Taking one last, deep, breath, he walked resolutely to the front of the store, flipping the sign from “Closed” to “Open,” surprised to see that there was already a customer waiting outside in the chill air.

He quickly unlocked the door, only to wish he had taken more time when he realized that the man in question was his Danish sometime debate partner. He was not in the mood to scrimmage over some political issue and kept his distance as the tall man followed him inside, whistling a happy tune. He seemed even more chipper than usual, hands in his pockets as he rocked back and forth on his heels, inspecting the day’s offerings.

He smiled at Sweden, “Sorry to be so early! But you know how it is, your supposedly better half snaps their fingers and you’re expected to jump and attend to their whim!”

 _“Do I know how it is? I didn’t even get the chance to wow Finland with my version of breakfast in bed.”_ Sweden groused, with more bitterness than he thought he possessed. 

Out loud, he asked, “Coffee for two, then?” 

The Danish man nodded, still grinning, “You got it. Better make them larges, too. I love him, but Norway’s a cranky one when he doesn’t get enough caffeine.” 

As Sweden poured the coffee, the other man bent down to look at the cookies, humming appreciatively, “Give me a few of those as well. He’ll complain and pretend he doesn’t want ‘em, but I bet you that later he’ll reward me for being so thoughtful.” 

Handing over the coffees, Sweden arched a skeptical eyebrow, “You don’t sound too sure.” 

His customer’s answering laughter filled the room, “Nah, trust me, he likes them. He just doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction, the bastard,” he smiled, eyes fond and affectionate, continuing, “sometimes, with guys like him, you just have to convince them of what’s good for them! Hell, that’s how I got him to go out with me. Persisted until he couldn’t help but recognize how awesome I am!” 

“Right,” Sweden said dubiously, giving the man his cookies and bidding him a good day, envious of the obviously happy swing in his steps as he made his way back home to his waiting lover.

And yet the man’s words kept echoing in his mind, fighting for space with the endless looping of Finland’s goodbye as he served tea and coffee, absent mindedly making sales, barely registering the constant stream of customers.

 _“I don’t belong in your world_.”

 _“You just have to convince them_ _of what’s good for them_.”

 _“I can’t do this_.” 

 _“Persisted…”_

Pained, exhausted, and confused by day’s end, Sweden turned down the lights, taking a glass of wine over to the table by the window, the sole occupant this night. Taking his glasses off to rub his eyes, he stared out onto the now blurry street, wondering how many evenings had passed since he last whiled away the hours thinking about the people walking down the avenue.

That had been his small little world, days with Sealand and customers, nights alone with idle daydreams, thoughts about the pretty stranger who looked in his window with such conflicted eyes.  And then there he was, real and present, as vibrant and enchanting as Sweden had dared to believe he would be, filling his life, bringing brightness to the darkened corners in his heart.

 _“I don’t belong in your world_.”  Sweden banged his fist on the table in frustration.

 _How_ , Sweden turned over again and again in his thoughts, _did I fail to convince him of how welcome, needed, necessary he is to me?_

Momentarily he wished bloody revenge against the man from the past, who kept returning to reopen Finland’s wounds, for having done such damage to someone so wonderful. Such unnecessary emotional carnage. He shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind, knowing that no matter how much bodily harm he might want to bring down upon the miserable excuse for a man, it would not bring Finland back into this shop, back into his life.

Suddenly he pictured the Danish man’s warm smile and laughing words, _“sometimes you just have to convince them!”_

 _“No_ ,” he mused, a tendril of hope starting to grow once more in his heart, “ _I have to be persistent, tell him as long as he’ll listen how wanted he is, that whatever goodness and kindness he sees in me, its reflected in him tenfold. That I will wait, not giving up on him_.”

 Pulse humming with new found resolve, he stood, letting his hand run over the back of Finland’s empty chair, before retreating for the night.


	7. 7

The next morning, a Sweden with dark circles under his eyes and ink stains on his fingers handed a box, wrapped in a blue bow, containing a piece of apple pie, a spray of forget-me-nots, and a letter to Finland. He asked if perhaps Sealand might be willing to run the once offered errand and take this gift to Finland. 

Sealand looked confused and concerned, but for once settled on discretion being the better part of valor and left his questions unasked before nodding in agreement and heading on his way. As he watched the boy’s progress down the road, Sweden wondered apprehensively what Finland would think of his note. Would he read it? Would he understand? Shaking his head to snap out of his returning despair, Sweden compelled his heart to stay true, to believe in the Finland he loved, a man who would be too kind not to read a letter addressed to his name. 

 _Monday, December 13 th, 2010_

_Finland,_

_I hope you like the pie. Not sure if I’ve made it for you yet._

_Did I ever tell you that before I met you I used to watch the people who passed by my store window at night, on their way home, and I would dream up their stories._

_There was a woman who wore black suits every day. But sometimes I would see her in these red heels, a little spark of notice me color and I wanted to know, who is she wearing those for? What does she think when she slides them on in the morning, catching her reflection in the mirror? Do her coworkers giggle and point when she’s not looking or does her husband whisper to her that she’s beautiful as she walks out the door?_

_I’ll never know the answer, of course, but there’s something about the possibility of it all, isn’t there?_

_~Sweden_

Sealand returned and Sweden bit his tongue to keep from asking if Finland had opened the gift, settling instead for asking if he looked well. Eyes even wider with concerned curiosity, Sealand related that Finland seemed tired and sad, that he’d held the box so close to his chest that Sealand was worried he was going to end up covered in crushed apples. 

Sweden thanked him and went back to work. 

There were no visitors that night. 

  
The next morning, Sealand was sent off with a piece of lemon chiffon cake, accompanied this time by whipped cream in the shape of a rose, and another missive. 

 _Tuesday, December 14 th, 2010_

_Finland,_

_Sealand says you look tired. Like I told you once, lemon chiffon is good for bad days._

_For a long time, I’m not sure I could have told the difference between a good day or a bad day. They just were days. Baking was satisfying. There were customers enough, Sealand always in the background, a comfortable home._

_Then there was you._

_Now I know I was just passing time because I know what a good day feels like._

_~Sweden_  

  
A second night passed with Sweden alone, waiting at the table in the window as the snow started to fall once again, people rushing by to escape the cold. 

On the third morning, Sealand prepared to leave on his Cupid’s errand, bearing Sweden’s latest entreaty and a carefully slaved over slice of pear tarte. Before he took the parcel in hand, Sealand looked up at his boss with earnest eyes, telling him with the charming sincerity, “I hope it works out for you, Sweden.” 

For the first time in four days, Sweden smiled, clasping Sealand’s shoulder, “You’re a good kid.” 

Sealand beamed, picking up the box and saluting as he left the shop. Sweden’s smile immediately dimmed, his heart racing, thinking of the words that Sealand was swiftly carrying to Finland’s eyes. 

 _Wednesday, December 15 th, 2010_

_Dear Finland,_

_Pear tarte today. I think it will forever be my favorite dish since it was good enough to make you come back to the shop, even though you were scared._

_I hope it can perform the same magic twice._

_I told you that I used to make up little lives for people I saw on the street. From the first time I saw you, looking in my window outside in the snow, I wanted to know your story. I just could never come up with anything that seemed to go with your lovely face and your sad eyes._

_And now I know so much and so little and I want to know more. I know you love children. (And desserts, lucky for me, or I would probably still be daydreaming about the handsome man in the beret who never came inside my store). You hate paperwork and miss home in the spring. Talk sweet but gossip like an old woman. I know that you are kind, that laughter looks good on you, that your voice should always be happy._

_I know you are afraid. And I understand._

_I also know that I love you. Entirely, as you are, and as you will be._

_I know that I will wait for you because the story of you, of me, it’s still unwritten and maybe even unimagined._

_And there’s something about the possibility of it all…_

_~Sweden_

  
The floor of the shop was in grave danger of being permanently grooved by Sweden’s anxious pacing as the clock ticked on later and later into the afternoon, the evening light gray with clouds that promised another round of snow. It had grown dark, but the store remained bright, illuminated against the gloom.

Sweden was on the far end of his pacing route, facing towards the kitchen, when the bells over the door tinkled. He turned and there stood Finland, clutching a wrinkled sheet of paper that looked as though it had been read over and over, wrung almost to destruction by anxious hands.

Almost unable to believe that he was really there, not just a mirage conjured by his overly hopeful heart, Sweden moved slowly towards Finland. He stopped in front of him, an arm’s length away, waiting.

Finally, Finland raised his head, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, wetness gathering at the corners. He held out the letter, speaking barely above a whisper, “I want to know our story.”

Sweden swallowed deeply, heart tripping with unexpected joy, moving closer to Finland and taking his hands. The letter fell unheeded to the floor as Finland leaned in, resting his forehead on Sweden shoulder.

Sweden murmured into his ear, “I think if we try, we’ll get a happy ending.”

Finland sighed, so similar to the happy sound Sweden so loved, squeezing their joined hands, “Will you make me dessert every day?”

Sweden pulled back slightly, titling Finland’s chin upwards to meet his eyes, hoping to convey with his eyes the utter conviction of his response, “Always.”

Finland’s eyes widened, before he nodded in understanding, going up on the tips of his toes, leaning into brush Sweden’s lips with fleeting, little kisses.

He threw his arms around Sweden’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair, face pressed to his shoulder.  Gently, Sweden wound his own around Finland’s back to balance them both as they stood wrapped in each other as the snow fell outside.

 

~End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I wrote this chapter, I listened to Rachmaninov's "Vocalise, Op. 34, #14" more or less on repeat. For me, the song just embodies yearning for a lover and writing letters to cross that distance. Oh, my sappy, sappy heart.


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